


To the sight of this new World which he sought

by luna65



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, M/M, Murder Husbands, post-S3, sad empath noises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:09:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna65/pseuds/luna65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dark mood in a place so full of light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the sight of this new World which he sought

**Author's Note:**

> Included in the would-be canon of Hannibal and Will in South America.
> 
> A tonal poem of sorts, Will deals with his ongoing ambivalence. The title and Hannibal's paraphrased quote are from Milton.

Chu cackled and the fine bones of his face lent him an aspect of profound cruelty. There was a stiletto in his hand like magic and he stabbed Royce in the arm.  
"Do you feel dead, you fucking moron?" he said to Royce's cry of anguish. "Don't you get it? Everybody lives in Hell."  
-Laird Barron  
_The Procession of the Black Sloth_

 

Will has taken to reading morbid things, he finds it a suitable anecdote to a place so vibrant and pulsing with...is it life, really? Or just the motions of existence?

He chides himself now for such considerations, though this has long been his personality. But within the confines of this ridiculous overwrought waking dream of their shared history seems an appropriate place for these thoughts.

_What does it mean when you outlive your own infamy?_

He accepts that in _this life_ , the universe next door, he is different, he is Hannibal's creature and Hannibal is his. They are conjoined as they've always been but in direct proximity. They expect nothing but what may happen.

He accepts that violence and manipulation contain an occluded glamour, as seductive as loving touch and as compelling as entreaties of devotion and they are devoted. To their continued relativity.

In _this life_ , he has to make sense of what he wants, or to void himself of the wanting and simply practice stillness: the contemplation of dust motes and insects and wind on water. But Hannibal, fallen angel, is always in favor of life...to feed upon it, to revel in its complexities, to fall in love with its faults and follies, as well as its beauty and horror.

In _this life_ , it does not matter if he is dead or alive, it only matters that he survived the fall. Because he has passed from what defined him and is now free to do... _anything_.

 

"Is it a disadvantage to be human?" Will asked. "With you?"

"It is a disadvantage not to appreciate what it truly means to be human. To be accepting of all experience and its consequences."

"Bedelia didn't think you were human."

"In Dr. DuMaurier's version of events, it was convenient for her to catalog me as the leviathan rising out of the dark waters of her curiosity. Even in the end she could not face up to her own darkness."

"Darker than mine?"

"Only you can know how long the shadows stretch, how obscure their depths."

"What is more important: the killing or the consuming?"

"The power or the partaking."

"Can you stop it?"

"It is not an aberration to be ceased. It is the primal momentum of our existence."

" _Our_ existence, you and I."

"Yes. We sustain ourselves simply because we must, we can."

 

They eat, they imbibe, they hone the finer points of their ontology to a prickly edge. The pleasure they exchange is in the transparency of their presentations.

"I can see your bones, sometimes. Or I think I can."

"And do they please you? Are they the pallid white of a skeleton newly-uncovered, or the old ivory of inevitable decrepitude? Have you rendered them or uncovered them?"

"They're so close to the surface."

Will leaned in and placed his thumb against Hannibal's larynx. He felt the swallowing motion. Hannibal blinks only once: his maroon gaze delving into Will's green depths.

(Hannibal compares this glimmering to the pond of the manor in summer, water choked with algae and lily pads and a verdant fecundity. So long ago it is merely a dream of a dream. He thinks about how sometimes talking to Will is like talking to himself.)

"When experience is ripe, that is the way of it," he said, slightly hoarse because of the growing pressure of Will's thumb.

"It tears so easily."

"Yes."

"Can you see through me?"

"Not as clearly as you see me. But I will always endeavor to understand. You are a constantly shifting landscape, the shadows ebb and flow."

Will lifted his thumb, rendering his divine mercy, and Hannibal smiled.

 

They have rules, they have order, they have opportunity. But they also have restraint, and the long-simmering patience of predators who know how much it costs to expend the effort.

In _this life_ , it's better to know exactly what you're eating.

 

"Merely a bubble upon the surface of a river," Hannibal murmured, falling into the green depths he contemplates. He has drawn those eyes many times.

"What is?"

"According to Upton Sinclair, life itself." He turned the book in his hands to show Will the title: _The Jungle_.

"I remember what you said about the limitations of delusion. We are not delusional because we share the same belief."

"Which belief?"

"That we know what we eat, and it is not us."

"How far removed are you from the Will Graham I met?"

"He's dead. And you know me as well as any creator would know their creation."

"Do you still think you're living in Hell?"

"When did I say that?"

"In the throes of a nightmare."

"Did you wake me?"

Hannibal set down the book. "No. I wanted to see how you would resolve your predicament."

"Did I?"

"I don't know. And it's obvious you do not."

"I don't want you to _sedate_ me. Or -"

"I won't. But -  
_Or forever sunk in_  
_yon boiling ocean, wrapt in chains,_  
_there to converse with everlasting groans_  
_unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved_."

"Who chooses torment? Someone who believes they deserve it."

"Do you?"

Will sighed. "If I want to _believe_ that I do, if only for a while, you'll have to indulge me."

Hannibal tapped his fingers upon the cover of the book. "I don't share that delusion, and I don't believe you do either. You are conversing with ghosts, shadows suspended on dust."

"Who else would be in Hell?"

"Do you believe I am?"

Will swallowed, and did not respond.


End file.
